


Alfred and the Foul Beast

by Vee_hee_hee



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, Humor, M/M, one sided worship thingy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-13 00:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4500492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vee_hee_hee/pseuds/Vee_hee_hee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poor, lonely Alfred, abandoned by his fellow executioners and most importantly, his dear master.<br/>Luckily, there's another giant, religious figure with a penchant for violence around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alfred and the Foul Beast

**Author's Note:**

> I finished an actual fic.  
> It was meant to be short, mindless smut but it got a bit out of control, set about ten years before the in-game time.

The nights have been getting longer and the number of hunters has slowly been dwindling, so when the Healing Church found itself severely understaffed, it did the only thing it could. It paired up whatever irregulars were hanging about, not doing active harm, sent them to patrol the less desirable parts of Yharnam and hoped for the best.

A lone, leaderless executioner couldn’t cause much trouble, they reasoned.

 

***

 

Alfred was currently confronting the damp and stuffy Yharnam night with an aggressive bout of optimism. A chance to air out his old hunter instincts, it’s been too long!

It really made no sense moping about, just because the entire band of executioners with Master Logarius at the helm took off on a glorious crusade to once and for all cleanse the wretched hive of filth and villainy that was Castle Cainhurst and left him behind. The old city streets lay before him, at the very least tarnished and malcontent, he could do a little purge of his own, what more could he ask for?

Besides, his newly assigned partner was quite the eye catcher. Chances were the first thing that caught your eye was his shoulder, anything further up required a fair bit of head craning. A foreigner, he’d been told, how exotic.

He most likely had a good decade or so on the executioner, brown hair already turning grey and wiry at the temples. It was obvious a man of such stature had to have a tailor and boy did they do a good job at almost, but not quite doing a good job on the fit. As it were, his trousers were a bit on the tight side and the black church garb stretched across his massive shoulders, making it very clear he was still in more than good shape. His primary form of communication seemed to be angry groans, which was a shame, as the few words he exchanged with Alfred were in a pleasant, gravely baritone.

He’d heard of this Father Gascoigne before, a bit of a local celebrity around Yharnam. A Priest from some far away land, who quickly made a name for himself even after receiving the traditional chilly Yharnamite welcome. There were a lot of rumours floating about, most regarding his unusual size and suspiciously pronounced canines. Half man-half beast, some whispered, a man cursed and transformed by blood, others murmured, wretched outsider, all agreed.

Seeing the man up close, he understood how the gossip had started. He was certainly big. Not an awe inspiring colossus like Master Logarius, who was a Shining Pillar of Virtue Towering High Above the Sinning Masses, but dangerously big, poorly-shaven-bear-walking-on-hind-legs big, big with a promise of violence.

Most unusual of it all, he had the distinct smell of a beast. A fact discovered when Alfred quite _accidentally_ tripped on a roadside coffin and tumbled into his partner’s arms. Manners of one as well, he noted, picking himself off the dirty cobbles a moment later.

 

Other than that, the hunt has been somewhat uneventful so far. Even the mindless monsters that plagued the filthy streets had enough common sense left to avoid the seething behemoth. The few beasts they did encounter didn’t last long. The giant's axe swings all but vaporized anything too slow or stupid to run away. He’d managed to smash a spindly wolfman with his Kirkhammer before Gacoigne got to it and he heard the priest chuckle approvingly in a way that made him strangely giddy.  Alfred did his best to strive for good, but without Master Logarius, he was a mere man, who try as he might, fell prey to an occasional fancy every now and then.

And this was definitely a fancy. Gascoigne had it all, tall, dark and prone to wanton acts of violence in the name of the greater good. He breathed like the very existence of air made him furious and moved like he was determined to do something about it. Alfred was really quite smitten.

It would of course be a sin, for an Executioner to engage in or even think too hard about acts of depravity better suited to those he hunted. But years of devout sacral service made everybody go a little creative with the definitions.The occasional or even more than occasional act of not-so-brotherly affection between the disciples was just Strengthening The Spiritual Bonds and when Alfred got a little too excited during a fight and had go and calm himself down, thinking about how wondrous Master Logarius looked with a bloodied sword and that special glint in his eyes was Purely Platonic Worship of the One Most Holy. After all, if an acolyte was to feel pleasure, should it not be from the visage of his lord?

Why who could look at his holiness and feel anything other than all-consuming reverence?  The stained glass portraits did not do the saint justice. So tall and elegant, long, flaxen hair descending into soft curls, noble brow and underneath it a divine symphony of courage, wisdom and goodness.  Oh how the viscera of the wretched shined on those big, strong hands as they tore through their hordes, air filled with their screams, running, but never safe from the righteous fire in those passionate eyes. You could almost envy the wicked, privy to his full brunt of his attention. Alfred patted his curiously sweaty forehead. Yharnam nights were quite warm of course, what with all the fires, no wonder he was feeling hot under his robes.

Beside him, Good Father’s wide stride broke a barrel, which in turn produced a large, barking bird. Priest’s axe hit it so hard the cobblestones sparked.

Alfred swallowed heavily, a very warm night indeed.

He palmed the round bottle hiding under his shawl. He had to venture into a particularly dirty alleyway to obtain it, what a thrill! The shifty merchant woman immediately switched the flask she was offering for another when she saw the insignia on his robes. The very best for our brave lads at the church, she said. It was nice to see even the dirtiest gutter scum still respected the cloth.

Nothing strange about bringing it, Alfred merely wanted to be prepared for his first night of the hunt after so many years. It was a perfectly normal part of an avid hunter’s arsenal.  After all, it attracted beasts, not people…

Sure, propositioning Gascoigne for a quick romp in the nearest giant-crow-free nook would be decidedly frowned upon, but what if the situation was entirely out of his control?

Was Sir Piotr the Pious not knighted into the holy order even after stabbing its archbishop, as the incident was later ruled to be a freak rapier juggling accident? And was Saint Millicent of the Northern Marsh not canonized for dying in the very church fire she started, after it was decided those tapestries were indeed enough to drive one to arson?

He could remember no example of the rule applying to two members of different sects having relations while out on a hunt, but the scripture tended to leave out the juicier details. The general principle was clear and Alfred was pretty sure it would be rude to try and split hairs when it came to holy tomes.

Now he just had to wait for the right opportunity to have a little accident.

 

They were currently in a small alcove beneath the sewers. It had originally been hosting a single overgrown rat, but it quickly decided it needed to be elsewhere when it saw the duo. The straw-covered floor looked reasonable soft, no time like the present!

He innocently moved to stand behind the priest who was currently kneeling by some possibly giant fauna infested boxes.  He quite predictably bumped into Alfred when standing up. The quick and stealthy way in which he’d planned to execute his plan was only slightly ruined by having a bit of a trouble getting the cork off, but the end splash was the same and that’s what counted.

“Gosh golly, well would you look at that, spilled a whole bottle of one of those nasty, sticky blood-wines all over me, I did, Alfred the Butterfingers they should call me, ahaha.”

The pungent blood cocktail was surprisingly viscous, he could feel it slowly crawling through his robes and sticking to his chest. Some of it even splashed into his mouth. He swallowed curiously. He did not partake, but what’s the harm in trying everything once. He curled his lip in disgust. It tasted like somebody mixed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, blood and rotten fruit, then forgot it in some damp, warm corner popular with the neighbourhood dogs. Knowing Yharnam that might've been the exact recipe.

Some of it must’ve gone into his eyes as well, the world seemed to be glowing slightly red.

Gascoigne stared at him in total bafflement and a healthy dose of horror.

“Whhat…have you done?”

“Oh no, I appear to be quite drenched, stroke of luck there’s no starving beasts around, I heard they go absolutely crazy for the stuff!”

Gascoigne’s nostrils were visibly flaring now, upper lip scrounging up to reveal his trademark canines, his hands tightly coiled into fists. No wonder, even for Alfred’s untrained nose, the pungent stench of the thick, mature blood was overpowering, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for the good father.

Strangely aromatic, a sort of a sweet, intoxicating smell that wished to cloud the mind and let the body take over. Of course, Alfred’s willpower was too strong to make him succumb to such base instincts. He dearly hoped Gascoigne’s wasn’t, this was taking entirely too long.

“Why if there was a beast around, I could hardly defend myself!” said the man whose weapon of choice was a glorified rock on a stick half his size.

Was he really just going to stand there, panting like a dog going through a heat stroke? Right next to a reasonably fit, young-ish cleric positively soaked in what he was assured was a very fine vintage? Insulting, that’s what it was. Alfred had been quite popular with the other disciples, with his curly fair hair and handsome features. So what if he was a tad softer around the edges? People didn’t appreciate just how much energy swinging a giant stone hammer required, better safe than sorry when it came to the intake.

The priest had backed himself against the wall and was doing his best to breathe through his mouth. Even hunched over like that, it was obvious he’d grown, his limbs lengthening out of proportion and mouth widening. A sane man would take this as his cue to leave, Alfred moved closer.

“I SAID I could hardly def–Oooomph!”

He suddenly had all the air knocked out of his lungs and replaced by one that smelled of blood, musk and furious zoo animals. The ground did not live up to its promise of softness, but he hardly cared. He was pinned down by the massive body, clawed hands were fisted in his bloodied garb, pulling it apart, he could feel hot, ragged breath on his now exposed neck  and-

Nothing. Gascoigne’s warped head was hovering above Alfred, gone completely still.

Alfred cursed internally. The tragically fallen priest was still holding back. What a poor, wretched soul, suffering on the edge of his sinful desires, it was surely Alfred’s solemn duty to push him over it and let him plow the executioner into the ground like he was trying to grow a whole field of violent clergy.

He licked his lips theatrically-oh there was still quite some blood left there, can’t be helped now-and with some effort, squirmed under Gascoigne’s heavy body until he could spread his legs. Hardly subtle, but neither was what was now pressing into him. Oh lord, good thing he had extra blood vials.

“Foul beast, you may take my mortal flesh for your nefarious pleasures, but you shall never have my spirit. No matter how savagely you use me and leave me on the streets broken, my frail body violated and leaking fluids for everybody to se–hey where are you going!”

Alfred felt the pressure leave him. Foul beast seemed confused for a moment, then let out a sound suspiciously like a laugh.

Then foul beast palmed his crotch.

“Hnn I assure you this is simply how my body reacts to fear, why I am stiff all over from the sheer terr-AAHhh-or”

Truly a merciless demon, teasingly stroking a defenceless cleric like that, not even having the basic human decency to take Alfred’s pants off first. He tried to help and had his hands pinned above his head for his trouble.

“Release me, twisted creature, or at the very least go faster!”

Twisted creature seemed to be entirely over trying to stop himself and looked like it was having just _oodles_ of fun watching the executioner struggle and whine in his grip.

Suddenly there was a hot tongue laving at his blood splattered chest, rows of sharp teeth grazing skin on their way. Spilled gore made the priest look like a beast feeding on his prey, slowly moving along the scarlet trail to executioner’s neck. Alfred only realized he’d been the one producing the desperate, breathy sounds when an oversized hand clamped over his mouth and the moaning stopped. Gascoigne’s grin was so wide it threatened to split his face and my, was that an impressive array of teeth.  It was also leaning closer and dripping with blood. The hand on his lips fell away to cup his nape. Surely he wasn’t going to-

I was less of a kiss and more of an assault. Alfred let it force his lips open, purely to avoid those nasty, sharp teeth of course. His mouth was filled with an overwhelming amount of tongue and fermented blood.

There was a wet plopping sound when Gascoigne pulled away, dragging a few stray strings of the pungent cocktail after him. Alfred let his head lull back, trying to catch breath. Everything he could taste, see and smell was sweet, sweet blood. He could feel half-coagulated rivulets slowly making their way from his open mouth. Mindlessly he licked at them.

Somewhere in the red mist he heard the laughing sound again. Foul beast was unexpectedly lucid, definitely more than the Executioner who was currently embarrassingly hard, desperate about it and quite frankly very much intoxicated.

He was vaguely aware of his legs being lifted and his robes being pushed to the sides. Damp night air hit sweat drenched skin and he weakly buckled into the callused palms pawing at his now naked thighs. His cock finally got some hands on treatment and he could feel it leaking from the long awaited attention. The other hand ventured a bit lower, groping his ass and then quite thrillingly, sliding between the cheeks.Then the priest stopped again.

It took Alfred a few agonizing moments of nothing absolutely horrible happening to his body to figure out what the question was.

Yes, gods, yes! I-I mean, do what you will with me, deprived bru-OH MY!”

For a moment he’d been convinced the Gascoigne had quite unceremoniously speared him without any preparation whatsoever. But it was a finger, a damn finger!

Thankfully it was slick with something. There were red smears, trailing down from his chest. Of course, what else would it be. He was now completely marred with the sickening sludge, inside and out, how utterly deprived. Alfred sighed happily and spread his thighs a bit wider. Leaning back, he tried to relax as the insistent digit began exploring. It’s been a while since he’s last been taken like this, but oh did he miss it. 

Another finger joined the first, adding to the stretch significantly, pumped in and out a few times, then curved, making Alfred gasp and grind against the pressure.

Gascoigne hummed approvingly and retrieved his hand to have both of them settle on the executioner’s waist. From his position Alfred couldn’t quite see what was now pressing into him, but he had some idea. He arced his body, closed his eyes and waited for what would surely be a ravaging to remember.

He opened them again after a few seconds, as the situation failed to develop further.

This was getting ridiculous, had this man no concept of ravishing with some consistency? Was pacing a dead art?

“Oh get on with it, I’m not made of glass!”

It has been a struggle to gather round enough brain cells to sound both pissed off and coherent, but Gascoigne seemed content on taking Alfred’s first straightforward sentence in a while as an order and plunged himself in to the hilt.

Alfred let out an undignified mix between a yelp and a hic-cup, his hands desperately searching for something to hold on to. His nerves were frayed with a most wonderful blend of sensations. The addictive feeling of fullness, the dull pain of being ruthlessly stretched, the sharp pleasure of the impossibly thick cock squarely pressing against a very interesting spot.

His body reflexively clamped down to save itself from certain death by impalement, which made the priest groan and try, against all odds, to push himself even deeper into the trashing blonde. When executioner’s ass refused to become any less solid, he settled on pulling out and thrusting back in.

This was…this was a bit bigger than he’d been used to, but oh so incredibly good. His cock was dribbling with precome like an obscene fountain, the sheer thought of having that whole thing inside of him was making Alfred lightheaded. He was completely full and utterly helpless to do anything about it. He was aware of his mouth moving, he might’ve been moaning, screaming or just babbling incoherently, it was hard to tell with the buzzing in his ears.

Another hard thrust, accompanied by a loud grunt from the beast. The hands around Alfred’s waist went from controlling to a vice grip as if he was fighting an urge to just pound the increasingly vocal cleric into oblivion. A fight he lost when the blonde wrapped his legs around his hips in an attempt to speed up the glacial tempo.

Alfred all but came at the sudden onslaught. Oh, if Master was to see him now, his most loyal disciple defiled like this, sacred shawl torn, body all red and glistening, spread wide and stretched out even wider beneath the monstrous man, mindless with pleasure and drunk on gore, like a, oh just like a filthy Vileblood! Would he take mercy on his poor, wretched soul or cleanse him in just reckoning? Oh what exquisite pain! Exactly what he deserved, punish him, make him pure again, come back and rend him His once more! The world was turning white and fuzzy at edges and he wrapped his arms tightly around the unnaturally large body, burying himself in the holy robes that didn’t smell quite right.

 

***

 

“You know, if you wanted me to fuck you silly, you couldn’ve just asked”

Consciousness returned with a vengeance. Alfred found himself lying on the floor, his now filthy cape thrown over him. Through the blearily haze he could see Gascoigne was back to his only somewhat ridiculously large form and grinning like a right idiot. He thought about raising a token protest, most likely involving words like "brutally ravaged" and “feral monster” but decided he was way too exhausted for this shit. His head felt like somebody tried to split it in half and his ass felt like somebody succeeded. He was, quite frankly, not in the oodles and goshes kind of mood. Still, he was strangely content, as if some heavy burden had been lifted off his shoulders. A peace of mind he hasn’t felt in a long time-

“Though I could be wrong, I don’t remember introducing meself as a Logarius”

The scarce parts of Alfred’s face that weren't red already finally matched the rest, then immediately turned sickly white, giving the blonde an appearance of an extremely distressed shortcake.

Oh no, oh no no no.

In his blood addled daze, he must’ve mistaken the priest’s huge form for His!

Did he really cry out at the thought?

Horrifying panic was settling in, this wasn’t just Innocent Appreciation of a True Pinnacle of Men, or Deep, but Purely Sacral Love a Disciple Should Rightly Feel for his Master, he couldn’t weasel himself out of this one with his usual deceitful ways of thinking. He had imagined himself in the act with His Holiness, spilled his seed at the thought! A sin so grave he hasn’t allowed himself to even consider the possibility until now, but oh, it must’ve been there all long.

No wonder he was left behind, He must’ve sensed his unclean thoughts and thought him unworthy.

_‘Stay, dear Alfred, you’ll be the one to save our souls, if our bodies fail.’_

These words of trust had kept him so warm since the others went away, what a sorry fool he’d been. It must’ve taken Him all His saintly patience to keep him around for as long as He did. So great was Lord’s affection for his followers, no matter how treacherous and outright deprived they turned out to be. He was a parasite, a snake who’d greedily taken his Savior’s kindness and betrayed it with his lascivious desires. All these years, convincing himself of his virtue and selfless devotion, all a lie!

 

***

 

Gascoigne stared uncomfortably at the Executioner, who had curled up in foetal position under his robes and was rocking himself into his own private hell.

He hadn’t planned on feeling sorry for the maniac who thought coaxing him into a bloodlust for a bit of fun was a good idea. If the strange, but satisfying round hadn’t mellowed him out, there’d be some shouting at the blasted idiot, but this was just sad.

Luckily for Alfred, the blood cocktail had been a weak joke, probably sold to him by somebody well aware the Executioners preferred spilling blood to tasting it and wouldn’t know a good drink to save their life.  He barely even transformed, kept control pretty well, if he did say so himself.

The miserable pile of robes and regrets let out and actual sob and he winced in unexpected sympathy.

The Executioners were a bit out of his scope of things. A bunch of mad zealots, Henryk had called them. But Logarius himself was renown as a valiant and hugely charismatic leader, even if his ideas of divine justice included some particularly nasty machinery and a whole lot of spikes. It didn’t surprise him this rather messed up young man has become...a bit too devout to the prophet and was completely incapable of facing it.

Against his better judgement he awkwardly tapped at what he assumed was the shoulder of the heap-that-was-once-man.

“There…there?”

There was no great improvement.

“It did seem like you were saying his name in prayer.” He tried again.

“I-it did?” 

A messy, blonde head rose from the red-stained cloth, poofy eyes filled with desperate hope.

“You, uh, sounded very apologetic about the whole thing, practically pious.” Lied Gascoigne, who had to actually break a sweat prying the passed out executioner off his torso. The blonde was deceptively strong and holding on for dear life.

Alfred looked like he was having an inner fight with common sense and emerged victorious.

“Yes? Yes! Haha, of course, A Repentance for a Foul Deed That Has Been Forced Upon Me by Unforeseen Circumstances, Logarius be praised!

Gascoigne had a district feeling all he accomplished was putting a bandage on a sinking ship, but at least the executioner was back to his obnoxiously bubby self.

He was also was pretty shamelessly staring at Gascoigne’s torn vest, probably thought he was being all subtle about it too. Not that he minded, the executioner was really quite attractive, if you didn’t mind the occasional bout of insanity or a long winded speech about his blasted Logarius. Nice lips, it was a right shame he barely got to try them out…

Oh why the hell not. He’d been a good lay, if a bit loud and overly dramatic and this way he could at least assure he wasn’t out there being a danger to himself and others just for a bit of stress relief. Besides, Henryk was off on another one of his stealthier mission again and made it clear big , hulking brutes who thought moving silently meant only breaking some of the barrels in the way weren’t invited.

“I should tell you, I…that is the foul beast has your scent now, who knows if I could stop it from, uh, again ravaging your helpless body like a piece of meat?” It seemed close enough to Alfred’s unique brand of bullshit.

He had to wonder if the Wheel Hunter Worksop didn’t unwittingly stock a certain kind of a romance novel among all the torture manuals. The kind Eileen once caught Djura reading and was still mocking him for it. There was always a strapping, muscular man with an intense dislike of shirts on the cover. Sometimes the man had been noticeably harrier than usual.

Alfred’s face lit up in what was most definitely Unspeakable Horror and he bit his lip in Fear and Disgust.

“Oh how terrible, I’m sure it can’t be helped. I’ll request a partner change at the nearest convenience. Of course, the workshop is very busy at the moment, wouldn’t want to be a bother.” He said cheerfully and settled closer to the beastly father.


End file.
